


Reckless

by TheHiddenMemory



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Drunk Chloe Decker, Episode: s03e15 High School Poppycock, F/M, Hurt Chloe Decker, Hurt/Comfort, POV Chloe Decker, POV Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Post-Episode: s03e15 High School Poppycock, Protective Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29671890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenMemory/pseuds/TheHiddenMemory
Summary: Post 3x15 (prom scene), Lucifer gets a late night call from a drunk Chloe.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 20
Kudos: 180
Collections: LUCIFER_FICS_





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In 3x15 High School Poppycock, Lucifer has the nightmare involving Chloe and his wings, and then there's the prom scene moment at the end. This takes place about a week later...

_**Lucifer** _

I'm already in an irksome mood when I get the call.

My latest attempts to defy my father have yielded no results, and my pigheaded, domineering, _dickhead_ of a brother apparently has nothing better to do than to lecture me on my recent _obsession_ (his choice word, not mine) with lifting Pierce's curse. I mean, _obsession?_ A tad overdramatic. I'm merely committed, but Amenadiel is prone to overreaction when it comes to such things.

To add insult to injury, there's a ravishing young woman downstairs (whose name admittedly escapes me at the moment) whom I just politely refused for reasons that entirely escape me.

 _That's called denial_ , Linda's voice promptly (and irritatingly) pops in to say, and I politely demand she remove herself from my head.

Needless to say it's clear that my current mood must be what exaggerates my reaction to the call.

It's just after midnight when my cell phone goes off with _The Detective_ lighting up the screen, and this alone is cause for consideration, given that I can count on one hand the number of times the detective has called me at an hour this late, and all of them relate to a case, something I'm not presently engaged in—like I said, I'm _committed,_ and what's a few days (it might be a week now...) off to focus on my tag team efforts against my father? The detective may surely miss me (she does...doesn't she?) during my temporary absence, but she's more than capable of handling things herself for the time being.

"Luuuuciferrr!"

I pull the phone away from my ear at the loud thumping music that greets, and it takes me several obscure seconds to recognize the voice behind the highly slurred, overly enthusiastic rendering of my name.

"Detective, are you all right?" There's already an edge to my voice that I refuse to acknowledge at this point.

"I'm faantastic! Uh huhh...having a ...night oout! You shod join tha partyyy!"

"Are you _drunk?_ " There's a note of incredulity now.

A snorted giggle. It comes through the line along with more thumping music, a bevy of loud entwined voices, clanking of glasses, and a nearby shout of _Whooohoo!_

I'm aware that when it comes to the detective that pesky thing called feelings takes on an entirely different form. It's rather like a raging beast at times, prone to outburst and irrational, erratic impulse I've long stopped trying to make sense of.

This is one of those times.

"Detective, where are you?"

She gives me the name of the bar (after several tries, which doesn't help the upside-down restless feeling attacking my gut).

I'm already halfway to the penthouse elevator, snatching up my jacket from the piano on my way out.

* * *

I enter the establishment with no small amount of disgust. Said establishment—the grody bar—is an abomination to the realm of nighttime entertainment, nothing like the sophisticated chaos of Lux. Atrocious music. Grimy floor. Cheap drink. It might not be a total loss, if I'm considering the scantly dressed beauties sending me a look I know all too well, but for once I'm not in the mood. Shame.

My height affords me a clear advantage as I navigate the crowds, and I spot her soon enough.

I'm not prepared. I'm not prepared for this strange burst of... _anger_ I feel when I see her dancing (more like tripping) drunkenly, with several men leering in the crowds nearby. I'm bombarded by the absurd urge to rip her away, to shield her from their eyes, from their wayward limbs and unquestionable intentions, and the force of it sends me reeling. I have no claim over her, none at all, and Chloe Decker is no damsel in distress in need of rescuing. At least, the sober and responsible Chloe Decker isn't.

I'm rudely shouldering bodies out of my way before I even realize it, more than a little irritated by the entire situation, and when I reach her it's to forcefully insert myself between her and her latest leering male companion, the latter of which utters a sound of protest I ignore. Chloe spots me then; her face lights up, and something rattles ominously in my chest.

"Luuucifer! Yoou came!" she rejoices in all her silly drunken cheer, clearly oblivious to her precarious situation—does she not comprehend the heinous beasts that are men? I suppose few do as well as I.

Her arms land around my neck, and there it is: the proverbial elephant. A week ago. Dancing at Lux. A reenactment of prom. A mistake, allowing myself that close, innocent though it was, one that cost me afterward, as I knew it would, but I gave in to the urge anyway. And it's its own method of torture, trying to convince yourself you don't want something while secretly knowing it's the greatest lie of all.

"Yes, well," I say, awkwardly extricating her arms from around me, "can't allow you to have too much fun without me now, can we?"

She giggles, swaying, and that upside-down feeling in my gut takes another restless tumble. She's even more inebriated than I anticipated, and I grip her by the shoulder, thinking I'd rather like to shake her—hard. Because this is wrong. Very wrong. The detective doesn't get drunk, least of all to this extent. I lean down to peer more closely at her through the dim and strobing lighting. I'm confident in my ability to distinguish between drunkenness and a drug-induced stupor, and my assessment indicates the former not the latter, but somehow it's of little reassurance. "Just how much have you had to drink exactly?" I ask.

"Um," she tries thoughtfully. "Oh!" A snorted goggle. "I think I lost count."

"Right," I say dryly, my irritation ratcheting. I seize her by the arm. "Time to go," I announce.

"But...you just got here," she objects, confused.

"Precisely," I allow, "and I've had about all I can take of this atrocity, wouldn't you agree?"

Before she can respond, a drunken fellow-of-a-douche knocks into her from behind, sending her careening directly into me. I catch her reflectively, and the raging beast wrecks an unprecedented kind of havoc this time.

It's not as if I haven't felt some degree of protective inclination toward a woman when the circumstances called for it, but this is not even remotely the same. She feels unquestionably slight as she clings to me with the crowds pressing in around us. Her arms slip around my waist, and she heaves a contented-sounding sigh. "This is nice," she slurs, leaning heavily against me and angling her face upward. "You're so _tall,_ " she observes in apparent awe.

Awkwardly, I work her arms free. "Right, now that that's settled, we'll just be on our way then." I tug her forward a bit too hastily.

"Whoa," she objects with a wince, her fingers scrunching around my jacket sleeve, "eaaasy there, big guy."

I admit, patience is not one of my virtues, and the thumping music seems to be getting louder in my ears. I've never wanted to leave an establishment more than I do now.

Her head lolls against my arm, and it occurs to me with no small amount of irritation that she _is_ shorter than usual—a glance down at her bare feet confirms it. "Det— _darling_ ," I correct, as it occurs to me highlighting a cop to this particular crowd isn't advisable, "where are your shoes?" I demand scornfully (because, I mean, _really)_.

"Oh," she says, her brow furrowing as she looks around. I follow her eyes to a corner near the bar, and then redirect her that way. The three-inch heels are not ideal, given her current state, but obviously I'm not about to take her outside barefoot. She winces as she slides her feet into them.

I gauge the remaining distance to the door. It's slow going. I have to use my body to shield her much smaller (and much less stable) form from getting further knocked about on the way out. Eventually, after more rude shouldering on my part, we make it outside.

The line for entry has already dwindled, the bouncer now waving in the last group of stragglers. The remainder of the street is mostly deserted, save for the occasional drunk, homeless junkie, or cab. It's a section of downtown populated with run-down tenement buildings, dark alleys, and questionable looking shops.

Which begs the question.

How could she be so _reckless? Drinking. Here_ of all places? A crude choice for drink. Alone. No gun. No badge. It's reckless and stupid and not at all like the responsible detective I know. I don't understand. I don't understand a lot of things at the moment.

"Whooa," she exclaims, teetering in her heels, her fingers clasping at my jacket sleeve as we come to a stop on the sidewalk, the detested music from the bar still discernible but muffled now. The bouncer's gaze flickers in our direction before the look I send his way has him quickly re-directing his eyes.

I belatedly realize I need to arrange for transportation. Clearly, my method of arrival is out. I can hardly _fly_ her home, after all. In hindsight, I probably should have better thought _that_ through. I try not to dwell. Calling a cab is also out, filthy, unreliable things, they are. I opt instead to call Lux's own parking valet to retrieve us.

That done, I take full appraisal of her appearance, the flickering street light providing an improvement from the dim, strobe lighting inside. I take in the mid-thigh length black skirt, and long-sleeved white button-up blouse. My eyes transverse from the skewed hang of the blouse (one side tucked in, the other not), to only now noticing the number of buttons undone from the top—enough for a view of the tops of a white lace bra.

The strange unprecedented anger takes hold again.

Without a thought my hands are moving to pull the thin material closed. I try to locate the buttons only to discover there are several missing. I try not to think what this means.

The detective, for her part, is grinning up at me, swaying forward on the balls of her feet. "You have beau—tiful hands, did ya know?" she says, giggling now.

I blink. My hands still. My lips slant upward with mild amusement. "You should probably stop talking now," I advise.

The bar swings open and a disheveled, drunken pair of men spill out onto the sidewalk.

The detective starts at the noise, swaying sideways, her blouse falling open again in plain view, and I'm reacting again without a thought, my movements jerky and abrupt as I dispense with my jacket and drop it hastily onto her shoulders. "Keep that on," I say sharply.

She looks confused but doesn't protest.

The wait feels long.

Even the detective's drunken delight seems to be waning; the street has grown fully deserted and I notice her inch closer to me, unconscious or otherwise I'm not sure, but that unsettling onslaught of protectiveness mows me over— _again._

Our transportation can't arrive soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Lucifer** _

Bringing her to my penthouse for the night was probably not the best idea.

"Luuuciferrrr!"

Strike that, it most definitely was not the best idea.

In fact, I've only just gotten her out the elevator doors and already I'm convinced it was most assuredly a _terrible_ idea. In my defence, after managing to extract from her that the Urchin is safely tucked away at her father's and that Maze is still out of town on a bounty, dropping her at her place to fend for herself in her current state seemed most ungentlemanly. The irony, it would seem, isn't lost on me now.

"Mmm, you smell reaaallly goood!"

I peel her fingers from my shirt and then have to catch her from toppling backwards with a hand behind her back.

"Aaand you're really, reaaally _tall_!"

"Yes, I believe we established that already. Now how about you—"

"And _haandsome_." Her hands slide up my chest and I have to catch her wrists to stop their pursuit.

"Right, whilst I don't disagree—"

She tries to reach my lips but her attempt lands short of the mark when I don't cooperate, and her lips instead scrap the hair on my chin.

"Detective, please," I admonish, "let's not—"

"Whyyy?" she slurs as she leans into me.

Why indeed. Before I can stop her (or, let's be honest, I don't really _want_ to stop her), she's somehow dispensed of her blouse, and when she presses against me, her lace bra and my shirt offering little barrier against the feel of her breasts pushing up against my chest, my resolve has crumbled to a point where I'm about to show her just how ungentlemanly I can be.

For reasons that entirely escape me, I don't.

"Detective," I say instead, and my throat feels strange and dry as I pry her off me.

She stares up at me, looking hurt. "You...don't want to?"

Bloody hell.

"Of course, I _want_ to. I—"

It's the wince I see flick across her face that first draws my attention. "Detective, what—" my fingertips hover over the mottled bruising on her bare upper arm that only now catches my eye. "What's this?"

"Hm? Ooh, that!" She flaps her hand dismissively. "S'nothing."

A peculiar, sickly feeling is trickling through me and settling like a lead weight.

I grip her elbow and draw her back for a full-on appraisal (I try not to linger on the small swell of her breasts above her lace bra). My fingers skim the darker bruising blooming across her ribs and abdomen, appalled now. "Detective, you're _hurt_."

She fumbles backward with another dismissive flap of her hand. "Oh, yooou know. Scuffle... with bad guys, comes...with the... territor—I mean, the job...no biggieee."

I'm overtaken by a whirlwind of a beast then, this one more familiar, the stream of questions demanding immediate attention: _Which_ bad guy? _When?_ And— _why_ wasn't I there?

Of course, I already know the answer to the last one, just as assuredly as I well know the face of _this_ particular beast.

I open my mouth to demand immediate answers, but then she's pitching sideways, her hand flying out to grasp at me for balance, and the color in her face drains rapidly. I've been to more than enough drunk ridden parties to recognize the signs, despite never having to experience such unpleasantries myself, so I know what's about to happen when she abruptly whirls around and makes a beeline for the penthouse bathroom. Miraculously, she makes it just in time.

I stop to stand uncomfortably in the open doorway while she empties her gut into the toilet most unpleasantly. General speaking, I tend to steer wide and clear in such circumstances as this, but I find I can't now. The detective is always so put together that I often forget how fragile she actually is—at least in certain ways. I'm struck by the fact that I've never seen her look so small and helpless before, kneeling in front of my toilet in only her skirt and bra, shoulders heaving. I stare at the finger-shaped bruising that wraps around her arm, and I'm instantly angry again, which is preferable because I'm well acquainted with _this_ feeling and know what to do with it—namely to turn tail and call whomever I need to that can tell me who did it so I can then beat them to a bloody pulp. Easy. Problem solved. Unfortunately, the current situation doesn't allow for that, so here I am standing idiotically wondering what I'm supposed to do.

She heaves again, her hair sticking to her cheek, her knuckles white as she clutches the edge of the toilet seat, and I hesitate for just a moment more before reacting. And it does seem like the right thing to do; lowering myself down beside her so that I can hold back her hair. It's damp and tangled. One of her hands presses into her stomach as she heaves again with a pained moan, and of course the bruising on her stomach is making this harder. The beating to a pulp plan is feeling mighty tempting indeed.

Soon, the heaves are empty, and then she's wrapping both arms around the toilet seat and resting her head against them with a mumbled, "S'orry."

"Whatever for?" I joke. "This is precisely how I planned to spend my evening. You and me and the toilet. Delightful, isn't it?"

She's not impressed—her eyes are closed, and her breathing is shallow.

I'm awkwardly prying her arms away from the toilet, where she then flops against me with another moan. "Come on now," I say, "My bed is much more comfortable than the toilet, I promise you."

"No," she moans when I haul her upward. "S'too far. Can't m—wwhat'rrr _doing?_ "

"Carrying you, of course. What's it look like?"

"Too...heav...y," she mutters.

I snort. "Not even remotely close."

"N'kay..." she says, leaning her forehead against my neck and wrapping her arms around my shoulders as I carry her to the bed.

I try not to notice her half naked chest or the way her skirt has ridden up to reveal a generous amount of leg, but, then, where's the harm in looking? Beauty is meant to be savoured and enjoyed, after all. Her breasts are on the smaller side, but I rather prefer them that way if I'm honest, and I sneak multiple looks at the delicate swell of them above her lacy bra cups. Also, her legs are one of her best features. Stunning, in fact. She really ought to show them off more often. I for one would certainly be happy to give them the attention they deserve.

She tucks her head beneath my chin, her arms tightening around my neck, her eyes closed, utterly trusting, and something stirs in me again.

Quickly but carefully, I deposit her on the bed, lifting her a bit to draw back the covers. I stare at her skirt, contemplating, then wonder what the problem is. Obviously, she'll be much more comfortable without the skirt. I find the zipper at the side and then ease it down. Her eyes flutter open to look at me but she doesn't protest, staring up at me with that look of complete trust that does more strange things to my insides. I toss the skirt aside, taking an eyeful of her matching lace panties and full unobstructed view of those perfect legs before I settle her beneath the covers. Next, I busy myself with retrieving and delivering a glass of water, which she gulps down gratefully before easing back against the pillows.

That done, I decide there's nothing left for me to do except leave her to sleep it off whilst I get myself a drink. A nice long drink. A very long drink. And maybe a—she catches my arm in a surprisingly firm hold.

"Don't go," she says. "S'tay with me."

I hesitate, uncomfortable, weighing my options. "That's probably not the best idea," I tell her, because, really, I'm not sure the limits of my control. I've never had to worry about something like this before.

"Please," she persists, and there's something just a little small and panicky in it that's really not fair.

"All right," I say, relenting before I can stop myself, and it's really a bad idea. Too late now. I reason that as soon as she falls asleep I'll remove myself from any further temptation.

I settle beside her, and she leans her forehead against my arm with a soft sigh.

Just when I think she's finally giving way to slumber, she murmurs in a near whisper. "Lucifer?"

"Hm?"

"S'thanks for coming to get me."

The raging beast gets in another few carefully delivered blows before she nods off completely.

"Anytime," I answer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading and leaving me love in the form of comments/kudos. You feed the muse. <3

**_Chloe_ **

I wake from a jumbled mess of unconsciousness I can't elucidate, but none of it's the good kind, and the underlining anxiety lingers. Just like the previous few nights, my bout of consciousness is met with a remembered panic and dread. This time, however, the bed feels unfamiliar, and a sudden rush of lucidity slams me with another kind of panic when I recall my spur of the moment foray to the bar—and the blank space of time after it. Shit, shit, s _hit!_

I sit up so fast that I very nearly throw up. The dark room spins, but some of the panic recedes when my eyes adjust enough to recognize the room.

Lucifer's penthouse bedroom.

Something other than nausea rolls in my stomach. I briefly contemplate fight or flight before settling on flight.

There's a dim light coming from the main open penthouse area, and it's just enough to see by as I toss off the bed covers and struggle from the bed in search of my skirt and top (that's what I was wearing, wasn't it?). The pounding in my head intensifies, and I catch myself on the edge of the mattress before I topple over.

"What on earth are you doing?"

I jump when a light comes on, and Lucifer—dressed in slacks and a white dress shirt—is rising from the armchair he'd apparently been occupying in the corner of the room.

"Leaving," I snap, though it comes out in a croak as I snatch up the bed sheet to cover myself.

He's not the least bit perturbed by the fact that I only have my panties and bra to preserve my modesty. Of course not.

He misinterprets, as usual.

"Right, you can relax, detective," he tells me, "Nothing happened."

"I know," I say, still irritated and maybe even a bit angry. Okay, so I'm definitely angry at him (amongst other things).

He looks at me incredulously. "Hang on, you actually _remember_ last night?"

"No," I say impatiently.

"Then how—?"

"Lucifer, I know you well enough to know you wouldn't take advantage like that."

Surprise, and a flicker of unnamed emotion passes across his face, and I feel a twinge in my chest. "Oh," he says after a beat too long, but he recovers quickly. "Well, it was actually very tempting, you know, given that you were throwing yourself at me, not that I blame you."

I'm reminded once more that I'm angry with him. Unfortunately, it's hard to elicit the desired response when one feels like they might keel over at any minute. I try anyway. "I'd like to leave now," I tell him—and it's partly true. When it comes to Lucifer I'm always pulled in two opposite directions: what I truly want, and what I tell myself I want in order to prevent myself from doing something really stupid, though in this case I may have already done something very stupid. Okay, I definitely have. All the more reason to get the hell out now.

He gives me a penetrating look. "It's five o-clock in the morning."

"So?"

" _So?"_ he echoes, and the sudden vehemence in his tone startles me. "You can't just go traipsing on out at this time of the bloody morning, hung over and looking ill. And speaking of, you want to tell me what in hell you were doing last night?"

I definitely don't, so I glare at him, trying to ignore the hammering in my head and the shaking in my legs. "It's really none of your business."

"Isn't it?" he challenges. "Need I remind you, you're the one who called me."

Of course I did. I've already figured out what I must have done—and why. But I'm not about to tell him. "I was drunk." Not the best line of defence but it's all I've got.

"Yes," Lucifer agrees, drawing out the word emphatically, "you most certainly were—very, I might add. What on earth were you _thinking?_ "

I continue to glare, but my legs are getting shakier. "Look, Lucifer, I don't need to explain myself to you. In fact, I think I'm going to be on my way, so—"

He steps directly in front of me now, towering into my space, and again I'm startled by the ferocity in him. "Detective, do you have any idea how reckless and stupid that was? I've done more than enough favors over the years to know the type of clientele that bar services, and believe me, they're not the friendly sort. In fact, if I hadn't—"

" _Stop_ ," I try to shout, but my voice breaks a bit on the word. Apparently, his close proximity is eroding at my careful defence. With one hand still clutching the sheet to my chest, I sway unsteadily, and I feel like I might cry. He reaches out a hand but it ends up hovering awkwardly when I shake my head and take a wobbly step back.

"Detective," he says slowly, "are you all right?"

I crane my head back to look up at him and fight the tightening in my throat, along with the constant battle pulling me in two directions. "No," I bite out, shaking my head again. "No, I'm not, and you're right. It was reckless and stupid. In fact, it was _incredibly_ reckless and stupid, and while we're being so forthcoming, you want to tell me where you've been all week?"

"I—"

"No, you know what, never mind." I jerk up the sheet and make a deliberate attempt to step around him, but the room spins, and I don't try to stop him this time when he catches me by the elbow.

"Detective, please. I may not have experienced it myself, but I hear the after effects of drinking can be most unpleasant, and you're clearly suffering such an ailment, so please just sit down at least." He takes both my arms now and presses me backward gently. A fog-induced memory from last night surfaces—him holding me in the crowded bar. "Look, if you want me to leave, I will," he reasons, "but you shouldn't be going anywhere right now like this."

My resolve is crumbling fast. Slowly, I shake my head, and he seems to get it because he doesn't move, doesn't leave. He's staring at me, and it's always like this with him. I don't know how but he always manages to worm his way past all of my defences with very little effort. Even early on in our partnership he managed to do it better than anyone else ever has.

"Detective, what happened?" he asks me then, gesturing at my stomach, which is obstructed by the sheet, but clearly he's already seen the bruising. His eyes are intense, angry, and recognizing the protective anger from him effectively dissolves the last of my resistance.

"It was...my fault, really. I should have waited for backup. I thought I could handle it." I look away at this admission. "Anyway, backup arrived, and the suspect's in custody now."

"Which suspect?" he demands.

I knew he'd ask but hoped he wouldn't, and when I don't answer he persists.

"Detective?"

With a sigh, I relent and tell him.

Without a word, Lucifer turns on his heel.

"Where are you _going?_ " I demand.

"To deliver punishment," he answers.

"Lucifer, you can't," I protest, "You you know that's not how we do things."

He turns back to look at me, and his eyes are bright with anger. "You're right, it's how _I_ deal with things."

I sway forward and grip his arm, feeling sick. "Lucifer, please. I'm okay."

His eyes are hot on mine now. "What were you thinking going up against a serial rapist on your own?"

I wince at how stupid it sounds now that he says it out loud. "I guess...I wasn't," I admit.

"I should have been there."

I shake my head. "Don't start _that_ now. Disappearing for a week with no explanation is definitely not okay, and I _am_ still angry at you for that by the way, but this had nothing to do with you. You're not responsible for me or my actions. It was _my_ fault."

Lucifer doesn't look convinced, and he still looks ready to do murder the instant I let go of him.

My fingers dig into his arm now, desperate. "Lucifer, I'm okay, really."

"You're hurt."

I swallow. "Yes," I admit, "he managed to...rough me up a bit before backup arrived, but...that's all."

Lucifer's hand comes up to where he carefully wraps his fingers around my arm to line up with the bruising—or at least to somewhat line-up, given that Lucifer's hands are significantly larger than my assailant's, but the point is clear.

I flinch a little, not because the touch isn't gentle enough, but because it facilitates another round of remembered panic. I nod, voice shaky. "All right," I allow, "it could've been a lot worse if the two uni hadn't arrived when they did. He, um, got the drop on me, and I...lost hold of my gun. We struggled, he got in some blows, and then he...pinned me to the ground. That's when the two uni arrived."

I'm aware I'm trembling—a combination of the worst hangover I've had, and the remembered fear and dread. I'm far beyond being able to fight it when Lucifer steps fully into my space, puts his arms around me, and draws me firmly against his chest. For someone who typically avoids this kind of intimacy, he's unexpected good at it at times. I press my face into his shirt, and he feels so solid and reassuring that I can no longer deny it's what I've wanted all along. It's why I stupidly got drunk in the first place, why I called him. There are very few people I can let my guard down around, and none the way I can with Lucifer, if I'm honest. The thing is, I'm used to always having to be tough, to always holding my own and never showing any sign of weakness. As a female cop, it comes with the territory, and I've grown so used to it, that I forget that sometimes I _want_ to feel taken care of.

I clutch at folds of his shirt around his back at the onslaught of the memory causing my recent restless nights and stupid drunken foray. "You know, it's funny," I say quietly against his chest, "I know better than most that being a woman comes with it's disadvantages, at least in the physical sense, but it's never felt more _real_ than it did then. He pinned me so easily and he's not even much bigger than me. It made me feel so...helpless." The confession doesn't come easily. Lucifer knows better than anyone the sore spot it is for me, being a woman working what many feel is a man's job, and feeling so overpowered like that is a hard pill to swallow.

I keep talking. I should probably stop being so surprised at how easy it is to lay myself bare to Lucifer. The reasons for this are plentiful, if somewhat obscure. For starters, he's the least judgmental person I've ever met. Then there's the fact that right from day one he's afforded me with such a plain and simple and entirely unrestricted kind of respect it made me realize how hard I always seem to have to work to prove myself to everyone else. Not with Lucifer. Which leads to the less tangible but far more assuming reason that it just _is_ this way between us, and I've long stopped trying to explain it.

"All that self defense and training," I'm continuing, "and it didn't do me any good once he had me locked like that. So stupid. I mean, look at me, bruises everywhere, and I didn't even manage to score a single return blow."

Lucifer's arms tighten around me. "I can fix that," he offers.

I choke a little on that. "Lucifer, _please_."

He's quiet then, and I can only hope he's not contemplating murder, though I'm admittedly enjoying his obvious protectiveness.

I'm also enjoying him holding me far, far too much, which is dangerous. I might be done trying to pretend there isn't more between us, or that we don't both know it, but Lucifer...well, Lucifer's not relationship material. He's made that abundantly clear, and I'm going to have to figure out a way to accept and deal with it without destroying myself in the process, which means keeping myself a safe distance away.

Somehow, I can't bring myself to do that now.

Tomorrow, I promise, tightening my arms around him to stop my legs from giving out from beneath me entirely. _Tomorrow_.


End file.
